


Evidence

by melfice



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:58:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melfice/pseuds/melfice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a snake in this den of wolves who does not belong.  Vilkas/Dragonborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evidence

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Evidence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136600) by [taipo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taipo/pseuds/taipo)



The wind is unforgiving outside the walls of Jorrvaskr, howling and whistling its way through the cracks in the wood. It is nearly winter and the months are growing colder, the days shorter, and as the seasons change so does the weather. The winds become strong and angry in the evenings, at night, to the preamble of shopkeeps nailing planks across the delicate glass of their establishments and bottles of mead selling faster around the fireplaces of The Bannered Mare. 

Inside the walls of Jorrvaskr the fires are warm and, although the wood creaks upon its foundation against the elements, the structure is sound. They have weathered through many storms from the safety of the building, weathered attacks and nature alike, and it is not the howl of the wind outside that leaves Thaer staring hard, eyes distant, into the crackling hearth. 

“There's a rumor I hear,” Aela begins, voice low even with the addition of the angry wind outside. There's a steaming cup of something in her hands that could be soup or something herbal, but does not look to be mead. “of unrest in these halls. Of the discord between two of my shield-brothers.”

Thaer does not need to look up, does not need to seek out his eyes in the room to know who it is he feels staring daggers unto his person. The sensation is familiar by now, something by which he has become strangely intimate with following his induction, and it does not surprise him to learn that the dislike of him is slowly becoming public knowledge. 

“It is hardly a rumor,” he replies to her, accepting her presence next to him when she takes a place beside him near the warmth of the hearth. “His dislike of me has been made very much apparent.”

Mere dislike alone would have been, all in all, something on its own. Vilkas' dislike of him is something physical between them, hovering in the air like a cloud of smoke, and it becomes harder to deny the longer the Dragonborn is in his space. Their fight – their 'training' – had not helped his image in the man's eyes, had not put him in a better light. There is enough on Thaer's mind, rifling through his sub-conscience, that it is easy to forget the rift between him and Vilkas, only to have it roughly shoved into his face the moment he steps foot back into Jorrvaskr. 

Farkas is accepting in a way that is open and simple, as though Kodlak's approval and Thaer's desire to become a part of the Companions is truly enough for him. Aela is not so hung up on the politics of it, does not concern herself with small nuances like his race or the kind of company he may keep; she has seen him in combat, has seen him fell giants alongside her, and it is all she desires. 

Vilkas is the particular type of man, full of pride and honor and Nordic customs and ways, that there is little else Thaer might have expected from him. The Dragonborn's lifestyle is not one built around a foundation of truth and honor, is one constructed carefully of shadows and perfectly formed lies, and it settles thickly like poison in Vilkas' mind; Thaer understands his dislike, does not begrudge him his feelings, but will not – can not – change. 

“You are not a man of Skyrim, so I will reveal to you a secret of Nordic men,” Aela says to him, leaning in close, her voice lowering, for they are not the only ones to warm themselves in the main hall this evening. “They are proud and stubborn and bend easily to the whims of jealousy.”

“Jealousy,” Thaer repeats, and the incredulity in his voice is enough for her to slip him a wry smile. 

“Trust me, dark elf,” she says, and this time her eyes flicker to where Vilkas is sitting, across the room. “Trust me.”

\- - -

The elf is as far from what Vilkas had imagined the Dragonborn being as he could be. He is short and slender, in a way that no doubt aligns itself nicely with his questionably ethical lifestyle, but that also offends the Nord on a level he can't entirely comprehend. It is difficult for him to imagine someone half his size slaying dragons, absorbing their very being, and yet there he stands before his eyes. 

His armor is thin, useless as any real defense, and it shapes itself around him like a second skin. Every movement he makes is either silent or only just loud enough to confuse with something easily dismissible – like a breeze through an open window or the creak of an old building settling upon its foundation. The Whiterun guards scarcely notice he is lurking about half the time, even when he is standing damn clear in their line of sight; Vilkas' own eyes miss the elf once, twice, too many times as he skulks about the halls of Jorrvaskr. 

The elf wears a mask, underneath a hood, beneath a layer of silence and ambiguity that makes Vilkas' fingers itch. His voice is accented and foreign, something too lofty to belong amongst the strong bellows of the Nords, and the manner in which his tongue pronounces Nordic names and customs grates on Vilkas' nerves in a way that is unfamiliar and unsettling. His presence alone has begun to grate on Vilkas' nerves in a way he cannot truly explain, to himself or to anyone else. 

The hood is useless. Vilkas does not need him to remove it to know the lies that are hiding underneath it, to know the deceit carefully sculpted there; there is nothing but strange, dark skin and foreign features that he has no desire to see.

When the whelp passes his tests, when he bests Vilkas in combat, it is a victory that tastes bittersweet upon the Nord's tongue. When he is made Companion, when he is invited into their innermost circle and offered their gift, it does not taste sweet at all. When he is the only one among them who denies the gift, who chooses not to allow the wolf into his body – when Kodlak accepts this and still allows the runt into their circle regardless, it is an insult, an affront, like no other. 

The bitterness in Vilkas' mouth is beginning to taste like blood. 

\- - -

The week before the full moon the atmosphere within Jorrvaskr... changes. There is subtle impatience there, lingering underneath the skin of all those within the circle, and it festers slowly day by day. Thaer does not share a blood bond with a wolf, does not feel the same pull, but the restlessness and irritability of the inner circle's members is difficult to ignore.

For the most part those within the inner circle are scarce in the day leading up to the full moon. They hunt more frequently outside the walls of Whiterun, spend more time in the wide expanse of fields and farms, and it is certainly a boon at times; there is never a shortage of bandits or giants that are in need of vacating.

When the winds die down, when the weather levels, Thaer spars with Torvar in the clearing behind Jorrvaskr. The Nord is itching to stretch his limbs, has been harboring an obvious interest in testing their newest addition for some time now, and Thaer is in no mood to deny him.

Their sparring attracts the attention of the other Companions, who keep their distance, but it is not a fair fight. Torvar is twice his size, towers over him easily, hefting an axe of such dimensions it could cleave the Dragonborn in half, and he is still losing. He can't keep up with the way the elf bends his body, the way he ducks in and around the swing of metal, and the snicker of amusement from the audience only makes Torvar miss all that much more spectacularly.

When Torvar has yielded to the press of daggers in his back, between the places his armor connects, the sparring ends. There is a compliment from Torvar, praise from his fellow Companions, but it sounds like distant white noise; Thaer is distracted by Vilkas stepping into the clearing, Skyforge Steel bright and clean in the sunlight.

There is certainly surprise, perhaps anticipation, but also the distinct niggling of trepidation trailing down Thaer's spine. The look in Vilkas' eyes is difficult to read – looks more curious than vengeful – but Thaer is not in the business of blindly trusting anyone.

Regardless, he gestures at Vilkas with one finely crafted dagger. “I hope you did not teach him how to fight.”

A thin grin carefully stretches its way across Vilkas' mouth. “Not as I will teach you.”

Thaer does not intimidate, not easily, perhaps not ever, but there is something feral in Vilkas' eyes, something in the tone of his voice, that is as close as Thaer has been driven. He feels respect like he hasn't in some time, despite the slowly growing desire to not be put into a position where he may accidentally bring harm upon his shield-brother. There is something in him that feels a little like reluctance.

It does not make him any less dangerous when the sparring starts.

Acrobatics and agility are a hard find in Nordic battle customs – do not align themselves well with heavy armor and heavy weaponry – but there is a certain sort of grace to the way Vilkas moves. It is not the same, but it is admirable, is commendable. The sword in his hands fits like it was crafted there, against his palms, and Thaer keeps his eyes on it as he rolls away and watches for the beginnings of an opening.

There is a fair chance Vilkas has fought against the likes of his kind before – those bred of shadows and speed, those who rely on tricks of the eye and agility to get in past defenses to strike – and it is easy for Thaer to see that his methods are not entirely foreign to the man. He has trained with perhaps a hundred men, it is only reasonable to expect that he would have encountered someone with the same abilities once before.

There is an opening at Vilkas' side, just wide enough to be noticeable, and it isn't until Thaer has already struck for it that he thinks, a moment too late, that it is likely a set-up. He can't stop the motion regardless – slides into Vilkas' space, to flank him, and is nearly immediately disoriented by how quickly Vilkas moves; he doesn't move away, does not dodge, but moves towards Thaer.

The blunt edge of the greatsword sweeps underneath his calves, metal against the leather of his boots, and Thaer feels a brief moment of surprise when he ends up on his back in the dirt.

The victory likely tastes sweet to Vilkas, to whom a thin smirk has reappeared, but Thaer does not take the defeat hard. It is difficult for him to win in training regimens, difficult for him to shape himself differently when he is too far used to the freedom of fighting however he pleases on the open field. He is unbeatable in true combat, invincible when not bound by honor and rules; his voice alone would be capable of rending flesh from bone, were it to come to that.

The Companions around them are cheering, but the sound is dull and faint in Thaer's ears. He moves to his knees, looks up to Vilkas, and the commendation in his mouth dies on the tip of his tongue. Vilkas is staring at him, eyes steeled, and there is something unfamiliar and foreign burning there.

The Nord extends one gloved hand, one that Thaer takes on reflex, and steel in his eyes looks faintly like respect, like acceptance. Thaer swallows thickly and feels taken aback, caught off guard, at the slow curl of desire that unfurls within him at that.

\- - -

The blood of a wolf is a gift and a curse and the way in which it improves his hearing is not always appreciated.

There is a soft laugh from Ria that grates on his nerves in a way it never has, that irritates him in a way that is likely a tell-tale sign of all that has gone wrong within the past season. She is leaning close to their newest Companion, portraying herself in a way that is unbecoming for a warrior of her standing, but she is young and smitten and who is he to judge her?

He gets up from his chair at the long table, rests one hand on the back of it to push it forward; there must be something that needs doing, something he can do to take his mind off of this restlessness.

“It can be difficult to shake the chill if you are not born of it,” she says to him, all open honesty and longing. Her voice lowers and Vilkas hates that he can still pick up the sound of it, the way her words shape on her lips when she offers, “You are more than welcome to warm yourself in my quarters-”

The wooden back of the chair creaks and splinters underneath the steel fingers gripping it, and Vilkas stares at it absently, as though the hand holding it is attached to another's body instead of his own. He doesn't look over at the two he knows are staring at him, doesn't look at the red eyes he can feel burning into his skin, and decides to take his chances hunting in the midnight air.

\- - -

When he returns, before dawn, Aela grabs his arm before he can open the doors that lead into the hall.

“You may be the smarter twin, but you are also the most stubborn,” she tells him, unprompted and unprovoked. “He is powerful enough that his will does not bend to dragons – who are you to compare, Vilkas?”

“If you wish to speak in riddles all evening,” Vilkas begins, but is interrupted when Aela leans suddenly into his space, close enough to threaten.

“He is the _Dragonborn_ , coward, how many do you think are taken with him?” she hisses, voice scathing. “If you want him, if you desire him, make your intentions clear.”

\- - -

The full moon comes and goes and it takes Vilkas' energy and anger with it. The night leaves him fighting exhaustion, leaves him ragged and longing for sleep. The full moon leaves and, in its place, the winds return.

Even within the lower halls of Jorrvaskr the night is brisk and chilled; the winds outside the walls are worse, could take the breath out of a man not born of it. There are sayings that the children of Skyrim are born when the weather is worst - that when the winds that bore across the seas are strongest, rattling foundations and walls, that the heartiest of Skyrim's warriors are born. There are many tales of the like, with many varying degrees of fiction to them, but there is no denying that there is nothing that makes Vilkas feel more alive than the chill of the North's wind in his lungs.

If he had not taken the time to appreciate the roll of winter into Whiterun, if he had not been the last to retire for the evening, then he would perhaps not be present to bare witness to the Dragonborn stepping out of a room most certainly not his own and into the hall.

\- - -

The door shuts behind him without a sound, his footsteps noiseless even upon the stone floor, and it is all reflex by now. He turns, to move into the middle of the hallway, and is met with Vilkas' eyes carefully regarding him. For a moment he pauses, tenses; he had not noticed anyone else nearby.

“Dragonborn,” Vilkas says, by way of address, and there is suspicion in his voice. “It is late.”

The lie is easy to shift into, almost like a second skin. Vilkas doesn't know him well enough to see it, doesn't know him well enough to recognize it, and he'll believe it for truth. “A task for Kodlak that ' _could not wait_.' I will likely retire now; you would be wise to do the same.”

There is a moment's pause before Vilkas nods in agreement, in understanding, “I believe I will.”

He doesn't make any move to leave, eyes still watching carefully, and Thaer knows he is still suspicious, still looking for something abnormal to cling to, but there won't be anything. Even Thaer's steps as he walks down the hallway past him, towards the adjacent bedrooms, are calm and calculated and nothing that would give him away.

There have been a hundred times just like this, a hundred times when someone has shown up early or at all, has shown suspicion in his presence, but nothing has ever come of it. It is second nature, is what he is best at, and perhaps that is why it is mildly alarming when there is suddenly a strong grip around his upper arm.

His arm is caught and twisted, his body moving with it to accommodate for the bend, as he is spun back around to face the Companion. He doesn't try to get away, doesn't fight back, because he is still portraying an image of innocence, cannot act out  defensively as though he has something to hide-

Vilkas moves forward in quick strides, leaving Thaer little choice but to shuffle backwards, to allow himself to be crowded back as far as the hall will allow. He can feel the cold stone against his back, through his thin armor, and he has a moment to appreciate the shadows cast by sparse candlelight onto Vilkas' face before they are too far into the shadows to see much of anything.

Thaer's eyes adjust slowly, pale red of his eyes visible even in the dark, and he is only a little taken aback to find that Vilkas' are just as inhuman, just as much of a faint glow in the shadows. For a moment Thaer feels wary, feels the prickling at the back of his mind that tells him to flee, but it is momentarily halted by the feeling of Vilkas' other, strong hand spreading warm down the front of his jerkin. He tries to shuffle back further, out of surprise more than anything, but there is nothing but stone at his back and there is little where else for him to go without violence.

It is against his own will that his body tenses, that he freezes with Vilkas crowded so intimately into his space; it is not something he can control. There are very few who overstep his boundaries, who are allowed to be so close to him, and fewer still who do so without repercussions. There is fire and force in his veins that urges him to push back against this man, but he cannot find a way to make his limbs move when warm, gloveless fingers slide underneath the belt at his thin waist, scorching even through the fabric.

Something moves out of place underneath his belt, something sharp and familiar – and, it's too late, far too late, but Thaer's hand snaps out to grasp at Vilkas' wrist just as his fingers curl around what they had been searching for-

The crystal is bright red, glowing faintly in the darkness, and it is held up between a thumb and a finger in front of his eyes, almost mockingly. Thaer's fingers flex against the arm holding it briefly, but they do not move away, do not make a grab for it.

“A gift from Kodlak then?” Vilkas asks, and there is a familiar, thin smirk that spreads slowly across his lips to the slow reveal of sharp canines. “This was in his chambers, true. How strange of him to part with it for... what was it you said you helped him with? And in the middle of the night – the night of the full moon, when he would be hardest to wake?”

Thaer's mind is racing, momentarily struck by the strangeness of the situation, of the unfamiliar feeling of being cornered, but outwardly he is certain his appearance maintains its calm. He moves his eyes from the stone to the sharp ones watching him, but does not hesitate in the next lie. “He is allowing me to borrow it. What business is it of yours?”

“Borrowing is a strange thing, thief,” Vilkas replies, curling the stone into his palm, “in that it requires the object to eventually be returned to its owner. Difficult to do when one fences the object in question.”

“Theft is a heavy accusation, Vilkas,” Thaer reminds him, and he cannot make his body untense from the many's proximity, from the cold against his back, but his voice remains steady and unwavering. It is hard not to feel admiration, fleeting though it is, at the slow boil of nerves underneath his system that are so foreign; he cannot remember ever feeling this way before, even with years and years of doing this-

“If you are truly borrowing this then I suppose I could not name you a thief,” the Nord concedes, although his tone suggest that there is no portion of him that does not believe the title is rightly deserved. He rolls the crystal between two fingers and reaches out, turns over Thaer's wrist and places the small object into the palm of his hand. “Provided you do intend to return it.”

Something that feels faintly like relief allows itself to drip down Thaer's spine. He eyes Vilkas for a moment, as though expecting a trick, but his fingers do close over the crystal. “You have my word, shield-brother.”

“Your words are honey, but ultimately worthless,” Vilkas tell him, voice easy and steady even as his words cause Thaer's defenses to prickle slowly back awake. There is nowhere to back to when Vilkas slides bare fingers across his cheek, when he drags his mask down to his jawline and says, “I believe collateral is the customary exchange in this circumstance.”

Thaer takes in a single breath, caught somewhere between disbelief and incredulity, and he takes a minute to allow Vilkas' eyes to rake across his features. He could move the Nord – he could move mountains and a man is nothing against what his Thu'um is capable of – but, even as his right hand curls around the hilt of one of his daggers, he feels reluctance to listen to his own better judgment. The hesitation is enough to curl a smirk at the edge of Vilkas' lips, visible only for a moment before he takes Thaer's mouth with his own.

Vilkas' lips, his skin, his fingers, are rough and chapped from the freezing wind; Thaer's own warms underneath him. The man's movements are hungry, possessive in a way they have no right to be, and brimming with impatience and frustration. There is a fierceness there that reminds Thaer of their sparring, an intensity in the way he moves that could only come from one who knows what it is he desires, and, against his better judgment, Thaer opens himself to it. He lets Vilkas dig his fingers into his jaw, against his neck. He allows him to trace along the inside of his mouth as though there is something there he is desperate to find.

He allows Vilkas to take what he will, to ravage him breathless there against the cold of the hallway. When the man stops, when he pulls abruptly away, Thaer is taken aback to find the sharp sound of surprise that follows comes from his own mouth. Vilkas' eyes rake over him appreciatively for a moment, following the flush that is visible even on dark skin.

“If you decide to borrow anything else,” Vilkas offers, likely because he realizes the futility in making any demands, “I will be in my quarters.”

Thaer swallows thickly and pulls his mask back up, half to regain some of his composure and half because he needs something to do with his hands. He nods briefly in acknowledgment, because the words feel strange in his throat.

When Vilkas steps back, when he moves back down the hallway, Thaer waits only two breaths before he follows suit.

\- - -

“You are breathing far too much of my air,” Vex says, almost conversationally, though her eyes bore daggers into Delvin where he stands next to her at the bar. “Vacate.”

“Doing nothing but getting another drink, lass,” Delvin assures her, with a grin containing far too many teeth to be entirely honest.

“Thousand gold if you pick a fight with a member,” Tonilia reminds them both, from her seat at her table, getting a nod of agreement from Brynjolf two tables down.

“Worth it,” Vex assures Delvin, and is rewarded with another toothy grin. She rolls her eyes and goes back to her mead, only looking up when Delvin glances at the bridge across the way. “Guild master.”

Thaer raises two fingers in greeting and slumps into the chair across from Tonilia.

The Redguard raises an eyebrow at him. “You smell like wet dog.”

Brynjolf snickers into his mug.


End file.
